“My name is not ‘Lady Carey,’ ” she said, for I was calling her thus on purpose, not knowing how she was taking wedlock, and being of opinion that an “honourable miss” ought always to be called a lady. “My name is ‘Lady Bampfylde;’ and I like it, if you please: although I remember, Mr. Llewellyn, what your views are of matrimony. You used to declare them only too plainly, whenever we crossed your ferry, for the purpose, as I used to think, of driving poor Nanette to despair of you.”
“And a lucky thing for me, your ladyship, to have acted so consistently. But his Honour the Commodore, of course, holds the opposite opinion.”
“It is hard to guess the opinions of a commodore always on service. Sir Drake, as I daresay you have heard, can scarcely bear to come home now.”
I saw that she was vexed by something, and also vexed with herself, perhaps, for having even hinted it. For she turned her beautiful face away, and without a word would have left me. But with my usual quickness of step, I ran into the lobby-place, and back in a moment with our Delushy, clinging like a woodbine to a post. At such moments, I never speak, until women begin with questions. It saves so much time to let them begin; because they are sure to insist on it. Meanwhile Delushy was making the prettiest curtsy that presence of mind permitted.
“You lovely dear, why, who are you?” cried Lady Bampfylde, with a start, that made me dread hysterics.
“I do not know, Madam,” answered Delushy, with the whole of her mind so well in hand, by reason of years of suffering; “but many people believe me to be the Bertha Bampfylde that was lost, nearly twenty years agone.”
“What! The baby! The baby—at least one of the babies—that my husband—David Llewellyn, this is very cruel of you.”
And that was all the thanks I got! While, what could I have done otherwise? In five minutes more, she would have been off in her grand coach with six horses, after offending Sir Philip so much, that he could not have borne to look after her; although, of course, he was now coming out like a gentleman to a visitor. Seeing such a pay-night coming, and a large confusion, I begged Colonel Lougher and Captain Bluett to keep for a little while out of it. And nothing could more truly prove how thoroughly these were gentlemen, than that they withdrew to a niche of the under-butler’s pantry, wherein they could hear no word of it.
It was now my place to stand forward bravely, and to put things clearly; without any further loss of reason, and even without considering how these delicate ladies might contrive to take my meaning nicely. To spare good ladies from any emotion, is one of the main things of my life; although they show such a want of gratitude, when I have done my utmost.
But as for frightening Sir Philip, of course, I had no scruple about that; because of his confidence in the Lord. Therefore, abandoning Lady Bampfylde to the care of her maid, who was running up from the servants’ hall to look after her, I fixed my hook (screwed on for the purpose) firmly into Delushy’s sleeve, that she might not faint, or run away, or do anything else unreasonable, and I led her up the long hall to meet Sir Philip, as he came down the steps at the upper end thereof.
The old General looked rather haggard and feeble, as if the power of his life were lowered by perpetual patience. But something had happened to vex him, no doubt, in his interview with Lady Bampfylde, so that he walked with more than his usual stateliness and dignity. He had never beheld me as a one-armed man, nor yet in my present uniform, for I took particular care to avoid him during the day or two spent at his house before I went to Burrington, so for a moment he did not know me, but gazed with surprise at the lovely figure which I was sustaining so clumsily.
“Sir Philip Bampfylde, allow me,” I said, stretching forth my right hand to him, “to repay you for some of the countless benefits you have heaped upon me, by presenting you with your long-lost granddaughter—and your grandson to come afterwards.”
“It cannot be; it cannot be,” was all he could say, although for so many years he had shown his faith that it must be. His fine old countenance turned as white as the silver hair that crowned it, and then as red as it could have been in the hopeful blush of boyhood. And the pure and perfect delicacy of high birth quickened with sorrow prevented him from examining Delushy, as he longed to do.
“Speak up, child, speak up,” said I, giving her a haul with my hook, as when first I landed her; “can’t you tell your dear Grandfather how glad you are to see him?”
“That I will with all my heart,” the maiden answered bashfully, yet lifting her eyes to the old man’s face with pride as well as reverence; “as soon as I perceive that you, sir, wish to hear me say it.”
“You will not think me rude—I am scarcely strong enough for this—it has come on me so suddenly. And it must be quite as bad for you. Lead the young lady to a chair, Llewellyn. Or, stay; I beg your pardon. It will perhaps be better to call our kind and worthy housekeeper.”
Sir Philip perceived a thing which had escaped me, though brought to my notice beforehand by our good Colonel Lougher; that is to say, how hard it would be upon the feelings of this young girl, to have her “identity” (as Crowner Bowles entitled it) discussed in her own presence. Therefore she was led away by that regular busybody the housekeeper, Mrs. Cockhanterbury; while I begged leave
